Chapter 2: Cordelia

They sat by the fire, wrapped in borrowed furs and cloaks. He had his back to the wheel of a caravan—whistling, despite the occasional grunt of pain that followed as a rogue checked his bound shoulder. Despite his injury, however, he alone seemed completely at ease in the camp.

In complete contrast to his casual stance, she sat in humbled silence several yards away, posture stiff in her seat upon a wooden crate. Once or twice, she'd caught his eye, but almost immediately looked away. He hadn't said much on the way back to the encampment, but she wondered if he'd taken her interference badly.

Little more than a day had passed since they'd returned. She'd hardly spoken since then—it worried her all the more, because Cordelia Elisse Cyrix knew herself to be talkative.

The druid hadn't needed her around—the way the rogues were behaving, it was obvious her presence in the thick of battle had been more a hindrance than anything. Sure, she had been of some help disposing of Blood Raven's minions, but who was to say he could not have done the job, and faster, on his own?

"Could've gotten herself killed."

"Jumped in so he had to watch out for her as well—"

"—inexperienced, she just needs to learn how to proceed with caution."

She'd heard plenty of criticism since their return. Cordelia wondered if she would've been more inclined to defend herself if she felt anything but embarrassment.

They were all marveling at her naivette. She could feel it.

Cordelia twiddled her thumbs impatiently, then tugged the borrowed cloaks off. One by one, she began to fold them, meticulously tucking the embroidered hems in. When she was done, she gazed meekly about. The druid was watching her; she fancied she saw a good-natured twinkle in his deep grey eyes. She jumped to her feet, flushing crimson as she strode towards the blacksmith's tent. The tall, blonde woman who worked the forge smiled as she retrieved the cloaks. The rogues called her Charsi.

"Thank you. I am quite warm enough now." She murmured, not quite daring to make eye contact.

The blacksmith chuckled. "You're still shivering." She observed mildly.

Cordelia frowned, shaking her head as she swallowed. "I'm quite alright. Thank you, m'lady."

The other laughed outright. "No one's ever called me m'lady before, miss. I'm just a blacksmith—call me Charsi." She smiled warmly.

The young sorceress returned her smile, however feebly. Still, when Charsi attempted to catch her eye, she glanced away. "I—uh. I mean, my name is Cordelia. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Charsi."

Charsi chuckled once more. She seemed amused. Whether it was at the expense her awkwardness, of at her earlier misfortune, Cordelia had no idea.

"That's a pretty name. How old are you?"

"Eighteen." Cordelia shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Charsi seemed kind. Unlike some of the other rogues, she didn't seem to mind Cordelia's presence at all.

"There is no need to feel awkward, Cordelia. I hear you fought bravely in the burial grounds." Charsi said simply, casually reaching over to take hold of a hammer. Holding it to eye level, she examined it for a second, before releasing a faint sigh. "All that matters is that both Saul, and yourself returned safely."

Cordelia blinked at the ground. Did Charsi have the ability to read minds?

Afterwards, she responded. "Oh. So his name is Saul."

Charsi nodded; she drew a sword from its fire, and began to hammer at it. "You haven't spoken?"

Cordelia bit her lips. "No."

The cold, hard truth was that she'd been avoiding Master Saul. The fact that he, alone knew the details of the happenings within the burial grounds was embarrasing enough. She'd reasoned, to herself, that he had absolutely no cause to tell the rogues of her foolish attempt at battling Blood Raven with her novice-level magic. Still, she was worried.

She'd never taken criticism very well.

Charsi eyed her curiously, then returned to her hammering. "You should. I know he looks like an arrogant braggart, but he's kind. Really."

"Er—" Cordelia began. "I think—"

"—Don't think, just do it." Charsi said. "Get it over with. You'll have to talk to him eventually, right?" She paused, glancing up from her work. "That is, if you're planning to stay?"

Cordelia chuckled helplessly. The blacksmith had stopped working, and was watching her, wearing a rather benign smile. "I was about to say that he looks more—calm, than arrogant. But yes, I was sent to aid your cause, Miss Charsi. I will stay."

Charsi laughed. "Then I suggest you speak to Kashya. But do it after you speak with Saul. He might have some useful advice on dealing with our Captain."

Somehow she couldn't quite shake the feeling there was more that Charsi had wanted to say about the Captain. It didn't do much to put her at ease.

She cleared her throat, then held the cloaks up. "Where do I put these, Miss Charsi?"

"Over there, on that bench. And really, I mean it. Talk to him."

Cordelia pursed her lips, then nodded, hoping her expression lacked the sullen-ness she felt inside.

It was little later when she'd finally left the blacksmith's tent. She felt better; less the victim of unsettled nerves, and more ready, somehow, to face what new embarassments she might receive. Twilight had fallen once more, pale pinks and oranges dotting the horizon to the west.

Master Saul was still watching her when she strode towards the campfire. She had the vague idea he'd been watching her from behind whilst she spoke with Charsi. For some reason, the thought did not unnerve her as much anymore. Perhaps it was due to Charsi's words of encouragement. Cordelia found herself glancing over towards the druid. She caught his eyes.

She smiled winningly at him—she'd seen her mother do so often, in necessary situations—and was pleased to find him blinking in surprise at her sudden burst of friendliness.

It was rather satisfying, Cordelia thought, as she stretched her arms out towards the skies.

He'd watched her since their return from the burial grounds. Perhaps she'd known; she'd catch his eye, then look away almost immediately. He smirked at the thought; he only wanted to know how she was doing, how she was feeling. It was not as though he'd intended to tell the rogues of her badly timed interference in the battle.

In fact, he mused, she'd hardly had cause to worry; she'd helped to deal with Blood Raven's minions, after all—an odd, unecessary, but all things considered, somewhat helpful interference. He would've been able to finish the battle, and would've probably lived to tell the tale, but she'd definitely helped to end it sooner.

He wondered if the rogues' animosity towards her were even fair. Then again, he supposed it was how they treated strangers—he'd seen no small share of that same animosity.

He still did from time to time.

She hadn't said a single word to him. He found it oddly interesting, though he was shrewd enough to hide it. Besides, she'd seemed rather afflicted by their last battle. Perhaps she'd felt embarassed at her lack of participation in the fight—to Saul, it seemed pointless. She was clearly not experienced enough to be blaming herself for bloodlust where demons were concerned.

Either way, he was certain Charsi would make quick work of her nerves.

"I must thank you for your good work earlier, Master Saul."

Saul blinked, the shifted a little. Torn between wanting to watch the red-headed lass where she stood with the blacksmith, and facing new company, he'd settled for a compromise position—one where he could keep an eye on both. Still, he hadn't heard Kashya's approach.

"Yes, Captain." He managed a smile as he turned to face the other. "About a million and one times, I think."

Kashya offered a smile—it was one of the rare ones he'd chanced sight of since he'd first arrived. It was also the first one directed towards him. "I am sorry. For my mistrust."

He'd been watching the lass shift her footing, as though uncomfortable. It took him several long moments to make sense of the Captain's unexpected apology. When he did, he could only blink. "Oh, by the Gods. This is a historical moment indeed!" He grinned at her. When she did not return his smile, he sighed, felt the good humour deflate within his chest.

Better just say what she wants to hear.

"All is forgiven."

She nodded briskly. "I have nothing of high enough worth to give to you for allowing Alathea to rest properly. However, I can offer you my service, and that of my rogue scouts." Kashya crossed her arms over her chest. "Liene has expressed desire to aid you in your coming battles. If you will have her bow, and mine, then we are at your disposal."

Saul frowned. "You—" He said pointedly, "—have to govern the defenses of the encampment. You are the Captain."

Kashya seemed to take it as a personal insult. Saul raised both his arms as she towered over him. "I take it you refuse my aid, then?" Her chilly demeanor had returned—it was much less welcome than usual. "That is well, then. I am glad of this; I shan't have to put up with you."

His frown deepened. "Don't take it that way—" He began. She held up a hand, silencing him.

"Akara wishes to see you, and her. As soon as possible." The Rogue Captain's voice had shifted into a stiff, cool territory. Clearly, she was going to be offended for a long time. And quite, quite obviously, she did not trust the red-headed lass.

Big surprise there.

He was biting back the sarcasm riddling his tongue, fighting to retort, when she strode away without a backward glance.

Grumbling under his breath, Saul turned once more to watch the red-headed lass. She seemed quite at ease now. Somehow, he suspected that her topic of conversation with Charsi sat where he sat, wore his clothes, and bore his name.

After a moment or two, the lass returned to the fireside. She walked, now, with a renewed gait; she seemed less heavy, somehow. Saul nodded in approval. Charsi had done well.

He had not expected so much as a glance from her; and so, when she'd turned, bold as thunder, to return his smile, he'd jumped. Then she turned away again, and he could've sworn he'd caught a trace of a triumphant smirk upon her lips.

"Much better."

Saul lifted his head; the owner of the caravan upon which he was leaning stood beside him. "She does look much better, doesn't she?"

Warriv scratched mildly at his bearded chin. His voice was equally low, barely perceptible to anyone but Saul beyond the soft crackling of the fire. "Very pretty little smile she gave you, too. It would've been a shame if she were, indeed, a solemn little nightingale." He paused, as though thinking. "She looked the part two hours ago."

The druid chuckled—some part of him was amused. "True."

"If she is well enough to look you in the eye, Saul—you should go and see Akara." Warriv jerked his head gently towards the far edge of the camp. "Everything with that woman is important."

Saul blinked. "Think she's ready to talk? She's been pretty quiet since we got back here." He gestured vaguely towards the lass.

"Oh—don't tell me you don't want to." Warriv eased his arms back, stretching. "You've been watching her all day."

So someone had noticed.

"She looked troubled." Saul said, hoping his tone was sufficiently matter-of-fact. Technically, he wasn't lying—he had been worried for her, somewhat. She was young, and reminded him strongly of his sisters.

He was used to playing the part of the protector.

Still, he didn't think Warriv needed to know the extent to which the lass interested him.

"If you say so." Warriv winked. "Well, I'd best be off. Gheed wants a game of dice."

The clearing emptied, Saul found his attention focused once more upon the young girl. He rubbed at the back of his head, and cleared his throat, shifting slightly so that he could face her properly.

She seemed less rigid than before. Occasionally, the winds would change, and he'd catch the gentle humming of a soft, musical tune, the lyrics soft and solemn. Her voice was low—a soft, but highly accented lilt. She enuciated each and every word, as if the common tongue were not native to her.

The song seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it.

The truth, indeed, was that Saul rarely found it in himself to be interested, however mildly, in women. The fact that this lass had caught his eye was odd enough; that she'd managed, somehow, to keep him glancing in her direction for over an hour was nothing short of magic. She was pretty, it was true, but he'd seen prettier. Why, then, was he unable to tear his gaze from her face?

As though sensing his eyes upon her once more, she shifted slightly in her position. Perhaps she was uncomfortable. He bit back a smirk—then jumped to his feet, brushing his hands off.

Then, tongue-in-cheek, he strode towards her.

Cordelia tossed several handfuls of grass into the fire, watching as the crackling embers swallowed them whole. She was beginning to wish that someone would tell her what to do.

Her order had corresponded briefly with that of the Rogues'; the high priestess knew of her arrival. And yet, here she was, slumped in a corner, uncertain. For a moment or two, a wave of self-pity washed over her. She scowled.

She could sense the druid's eyes upon her. It took a little while for her to realise that they were alone at present. Where were the others—the ones they called Warriv, and the Captain?

Occupied with her thoughts, she hadn't noticed the druid getting to his feet. When she glanced up, he was standing over her.

"Wha—?"

Master Saul rubbed lightly at the back of his head. He held out his hand, smiling easily. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

She tried to speak, but, in her shock, found she could only nod.

He chuckled. "Saul Vyreant." Pausing a moment, he withdrew his hand, producing, instead, a charming little bow. "Pleasure to meet you, miss."

Cordelia nodded once more. "And you." She began. "Corde—"

For the second time in mere moments, distraction hid a newcomers' arrival. She jumped as the cool female voice arose behind her. "The High Priestess wishes to speak to you." And then, a pause. "Now."

Master Saul's lips tightened; he glanced over towards the speaker—The Rogue Captain. "We were just going to see her."

"Then what are you waiting for?" The Captain lifted a crimson brow.

Cordelia blinked. For a moment, she found herself wishing she were somewhere else; as easy as it was for her to witness battle and blood, she was a complete loss when it came to witnessing arguments. Clearly, this was a personal war. She watched between the druid and the captain, and contemplated leaving them to it.

Her concern, however, was short-lived, replaced almost immediately by surprise, as Saul held a hand out towards her. "Come on."

She considered his hand for a moment, then shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. He nodded vaguely, withdrawing his hand—not in the least bit shaken by her refusal, and glanced towards a tent in a far corner of the encampment. Then, gesturing her along, he turned on his heels and was soon on his way.

Cordelia followed him. As she passed the captain by, she offered a tiny smile—and received a chilly stare in return. She felt her smile fade almost instantly, and it was all she could do to keep from running, as opposed to walking, after Saul.

The High Priestess of the Sisterhood of the Sightless eye was a tall, dark-haired woman. She stood with her back to them, her shadow cast in such a way that enshrouded her figure; she was more enigmatic than ever. Saul stood by the tent—no doubt the High Priestess's quarters, his arms crossed. As Cordelia entered into the warming light of the smaller campfire, he cleared his throat.

"Akara."

She was one who looked as if she'd been forced to gain maturity before the right age; her eyes were heavily lidded, and dark. Upon her forehead, chalky-pale, and prematurely lined, rested a single, tiny amethyst. She wore robes of darkest ebon, poorly adorned with scanty lengths of antique-gold thread. A hooded cloak of purple; befitting her station as the High Priestess had been clasped about her neck with a small golden brooch.

Akara looked tired, defeated. And though she smiled, weariness overpowered her form and face.

"Good evening, Saul." She inclined her head gently towards the druid. He nodded in return.

Cordelia stiffened just a touch as the High Priestess turned to her; she'd not expected to feel as sorry as she did for this most revered of leaders. Even within her own clan, where divinity ran strong, they'd heard numerous tales of the Lady Akara's gift of it. "High Priestess." She mumbled, dipping low into a perfect curtsey. It was of utmost importance to show good manners.

Akara smiled; she seemed almost amused by the young sorceress's gesture. "I have been waiting for you, child. Your Sire has been most avid in his description of you." She paused, gliding forward, as though to attain a better look of her. "You are most welcome here, Cordelia."

Perhaps Akara had known that Saul would start; she turned towards him, smiling wanly. He merely chose to stare back at her—confused or surprised, Cordelia was uncertain.

"Cordelia is Medjai-Kiel." She said simply. The druid showed no sign of having recognized the name; she sighed, shaking her head and clasped her hands together. "So little world-knowledge, for one so bold, Saul."

Saul had opened his mouth—he was ready to retort, but the High Priestess held up a hand, her expression stern. She seemed to take his lack of knowledge of the Medjai-Kiel as a personal insult. He only frowned at her in return. Barely able to surpress a chuckle of amusement, Cordelia turned her attention towards the priestess's instead.

"The Medjai-Kiel are an ancient clan of sorcerers and seers. They travel through the centuries—rather than make keep in one place. Within the ranks of the Medjai-Kiel—few women are born into sorcery, just as few men are born with the seer's gift." At this, she paused, nodding vaguely towards the young sorceress. "Cordelia is one of those most gifted with the arcane arts."

"I have been in touch with the clan leaders; Lord Oberon has been, for some time now, in the company of a growing shadow. His Queen, Lady Arlene has seen—and she is the most gifted, of all the Medjai seers, that the Lords of Hate, Terror, and Destruction are arising once more. At such news, surely, Lord Oberon thought, that he should train an army of mages to aid in the protection of our world. Rather like the Medjai branch of the Horadrim, if you will."

"But alas—this was not to be. The Medjai soon came under the attack of darkness, and many were slain. At such a time, I expected little that help would, or could, be given to us. I was torn between grief for those I had come to regard as my friends, and fear for that which, surely would soon befall my own order; but the good Lord and Lady sent word once more. I was to expect their most trusted ambassador."

Cordelia cleared her throat. It seemed the air had gotten thicker.

Akara, however, smiled, and shook her head, if just a touch. "We are most blessed, indeed, to have acquired the aid of one such as yourself."

Heaving a faint sigh of relief, Cordelia nodded fervently towards the High Priestess. "I offer you my services, High Priestess."

"Gladly, I accept."

Cordelia chanced a glance towards the druid—she barely managed, this time, to suppress her smile. He stood taller than both the women; his arms were crossed, and he had raised a single, dark eyebrow. From time to time, he tapped a foot gently upon the ground. He looked bored. Clearly, tales of ancient clans did nothing to amuse him. As Cordelia studied his face, he turned, and caught her eye.

He offered a small smile, though his eyes twinkled once more with unspoken amusement.

My heritage bores you, hm?

"There is a man we must seek counsel of." Akara had begun to speak once more, her voice going stiffer. "Deckard Cain is the last of the Horadrim. Without his expertise of the Dark Lords, we cannot hope to win this war."

"I suppose I am to look for him, then?" For the first time since silenced, Saul spoke up, brow arched. He seemed bolstered at the prospect of leaving the encampment.

Akara regarded the druid silently for a moment, before nodding once. "I would consider it a personal favor if you did, Saul. Yes."

Saul smiled—Cordelia was almost certain she saw a trace of the same smile lingering within Akara's lips. She could understand why; the druid was the very quintessence of walking charm. "Then it is quite settled. I shall return Deckard Cain."

Confidence bubbled within her. What had, only moments ago, been a mixture of sheepish indignation had fast become a need to prove herself.

And if she were completely honest with herself, the prospect of putting a hole in the druid's plans for triumphant heroicism was all too appealing. He was so very immodest, it seemed to her. So very self-assurred in the face of her doubt.

So very terribly charming.

She cleared her throat. "We shall."

Cordelia tossed her hair briskly over her shoulder as both the druid and the priestess turned to face her. She smiled sweetly. "We shall return Deckard Cain, High Priestess."

"We shall return Deckard Cain, High Priestess."

Saul started, then blinked at the Medjai occurred to him that she was teasing him; she'd turned almost instantly to face him, wearing a smile that threatened to turn his stomach inside-out.

For gods' sake, man, don't fall prey to that smile. No, no, and no, a thousand times and more.

They were discussing other matters now; Saul found he no longer cared. Mumbling vaguely about needing to pack, Saul turned his back towards them, and strode away. It wasn't until he'd reached the end of the High Priestess's clearing, that he realised precisely how much his newfound fascination of the lass was going to cost him. He was a free spirit; he would love none but Nature.

He scowled. She would not be his undoing—but even he had to admit, there was something in her smile that made twisted his insides.

Okay, fine. Maybe getting to know her isn't a bad idea.

Logic resisted. She's a child. And you're not a lovesick teenage girl. You don't even know this one.

"Saul, wait!"

The druid wrinkled his nose, before turning to face her. "Oh, are you done talking, then?"

She chuckled somewhat breathlessly, nodding as she reached back with her hands to knot up her hair. "I didn't want to walk past the Captain by myself."

Saul found himself smirking in spite of the juvenile remark. "Why's that?"

"She's just—" Cordelia began, frowning slightly. She fixed shy, somewhat sheepish eyes upon him afterwards. "—well, don't go telling her this."

He nodded, curious.

"—She's just a little bit scary."

Saul simply could not help himself. The enormity of the words, coming from the mouth of an eighteen year old who seemed to think herself mature, was much too much for him to handle.

He snickered.

Author's Note: Wow, there goes another chapter. This is the longest chapter I've put out so far; here's hoping they're all satisfactory! I didn't get much action in this time around, but I figure, for most part, gore can be found from the game itself, whereas fanfictions are good sources for human relations and such.

Special thanks to "The Phrenologikal Cat" and "Ophelion" for the deliciously happy-Emmy-causing reviews! I've been in high heaven because of them; and that makes me want to write more! Thanks, dah-links!

By the way, Ophelion, I wanted you to know that Cordelia's original name was Ophelia. I changed it last minute. Hee. And Phreno, I was reading your story; Cordelia looks exactly like Isolde! Talk about co-inkydink, huh? *giggles*

Love you guys, keep reading and reviewing!

Update: This chapter has been edited for clarity and continuity as of January 16th, 2014.